


The Good He Did Not Do

by DoreyG



Series: Crush [2]
Category: Batman: The Animated Series
Genre: Community: comment_fic, Drinking, Gen, Guilt, Survivor Guilt, everybody needs a hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-02
Updated: 2014-12-02
Packaged: 2018-02-27 21:12:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2706950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoreyG/pseuds/DoreyG
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I could’ve saved him, Alfred.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Good He Did Not Do

**Author's Note:**

  * For [likewinning](https://archiveofourown.org/users/likewinning/gifts).



Bruce’s eyes are dull, his mouth drawn thin. He whirls the scotch in his glass with a miserable sigh, and the uncontrolled gesture is enough to have him straightening from his position bent over the fireplace and narrowing his eyes.

“I could’ve saved him, Alfred.”

“No, sir,” he contradicts, neatly tucks his hands behind his back at the answering sigh, “some things are beyond your control. And, in my own opinion-“

“People should _always_ be beyond any sort of control,” Bruce parrots his words, sighs again – the scotch keeps whirling in the glass, no closer to going down his throat and soothing some of the tension from his clenched limbs, “I know, Alfred, I know. You’ll forgive me if I don’t entirely agree with you tonight.”

He frowns a little, to himself, edges closer. A lecture on just what he can and cannot forgive is not appropriate at the moment, he’d know that well enough even without Bruce slumped miserably in front of him, but… “You couldn’t have done anything, sir.”

Bruce only gives a sardonic little smile, slumps lower in his chair, “I could’ve.”

He doesn’t regret it. He’s never been a man who believed in futility, even in his youth when the entire world seemed to stretch at his feet, but Master Bruce is the one creature on this earth that he’ll make the exception for, “sir-“

“I _could’ve_ ,” even if he is the definition of futility – even if the darkness in his eyes, the rage in the clench of his fist speaks of failure in a way surer than any he’s seen in all his years upon this planet, “another one lost, another one worse than dead because of _me_. Just like- Exactly like- _them_.”

It’d be terrifying, if he still believed in terror.

“Who’ll be next, Alfred?” Watching his master slump even lower in his chair, release the cracked glass and let it roll emptily across the floor, “Dick? Jim? Another innocent with no blood on their hands? _You_ -?”

Terrifying.

But he no longer believes in terror, and hasn’t since the world narrowed to a small orphan shaking alone in a bloody alley. Now he only has the luxury of believing in practicalities – in the everyday minute of cleaning the carpet, making sure that the glass doesn’t splinter dangerously, watching the young boy he raised dress up as a bat and go to fight crime. All he knows now is dull resignation, the tired feeling after a storm that has scoured the earth and the knowledge of a man long tired of searching.

Bruce isn’t the only one who could’ve saved people.

“I’ll get you another glass, sir,” he offers, quietly, and turns away. When he passes the mirror above the mantelpiece his eyes are dull, his mouth drawn thin. He ignores them, and carries on.


End file.
